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Tag: Mother’s Day

  • Thank you God for the two who call me Mother.

    Thank you God for the two who call me Mother.

    This Mother’s Day I am thankful for the two who call me mother. I have been a mother for a longer time than not; so, I don’t know what not feels like anymore. Being a mother is also a significant part of my identity; and for a long time, the largest part.  I acknowledge that not all women get to be a mother, and for this reason I am especially thankful to God, that I have the privilege of being called Mum. 

    Falling pregnant was easy for me.  Being a mother was much harder.  In fact, after the birth of baby number two, I was diagnosed with postnatal depression.  The complexities of my relationship with my own mother, and the twenty-four seven demands of mothering two infants met in the middle, and my edges started to fray.  For many years I tried to juggle it all, so I could have it all; family and career – or business, in my case.  I yelled at my little ones, and oftentimes expected more of them, and myself, than was good for them.  I wish I knew different back then.   

    Ten years into this mothering gig, I made a commitment to follow Jesus, and started to ask what that meant for me as a mother.  I realised then, that I had actually abdicated most of the raising of our children to other people.  Between childcare, school teachers, Sunday school teachers, music teachers and sport coaches, I was little more than a taxi – and an irritable one at that.  

    It was not until I found myself homeschooling our children, that I realised how much our little family had become a bunch of individuals, with little connection to each other.  One day, turning to two squabbling siblings in the back seat of our sedan, I said, ‘You two have to learn to get along’.  Until then, I relied on other people to deal with my children’s behaviours and needs, and was relieved to send my two back to school, after holidays. This was the beginning of a season, where I took on the full responsibility of mothering our children.  As difficult as some of these days were, I valued every one of them. And just when I found my rhythm, I had to let go. I had to start to delegate some of the raising of my children to others.   I look back now on those years, and thank God for the memories our little family built together; all because I trusted Him to show me how to mother. 

    I learnt to pray for my children as teenagers, and I had to learn to let go and stop smothering.  I watched with fascination as God brought into my son’s life other men, to call him out from under this mother’s wings.  Men, including his father, called him to a life of adventure and the opportunity to be a man. Letting go of my son was one of the hardest things I had to do. But, this rite of passage was wanted. 

    As a mother of a daughter, I wrestle to model a different way; to leave a different legacy, to that of my own mother’s.  As much as I loved my mother, and she loved me, our complex relationship was threaded with unhealthy dependencies, and a poor mental health legacy.  Desiring to be a good mother, with the help of God and the counseling of others, I faced and dealt with stuff.  If I was not a mother, I do not know if I would have the courage enough.   

    For a few, special years, I got to mother another – a son by another mother.  I learnt something else in this season. I learnt to love without, dare I say, owning another.  And I am also reminded, that while motherhood is not assured to all, for those that are blessed, it is a privilege and one of the biggest gifts of all.  

    Who I am today, is intricately linked to who I am, as a mother.  I have the privilege of being wished ‘Happy Mother’s Day’’today, by a thirty-year-old man and his twenty-eight-year-old sister; who is also his friend. 

    Thank you, God, for helping me to be a mother.

    P.S. And thank you God, that I am now a grandmother.

  • Happy Mother’s Day to my Mumma in heaven.

    Happy Mother’s Day to my Mumma in heaven.

    My Mumma loved babies-she had four of them.  I was her first born; born in a little Central Queensland hospital, just short of her 21st birthday.  By the time she was twenty-five, she was the mother of four children under four years old.  If she was still alive, she would see her youngest baby turn fifty this year.

    The first ten years of motherhood were spent in relative isolation for my Mumma.  She would care for her babies in an old wooden Queensland home, surrounded with verandas and big wide paddocks filled with grain.  The nearest neighbour would be miles away, accessed only by dusty-sometimes boggy, narrow country roads, across bumpy cattle grids and through multiple farm gates.  When her babies were old enough, they got the job of opening and shutting those gates.    

    Mumma had to be brave. She would wrestle a gun to shoot snakes that threatened her babies and kangaroos that threatened my Daddy’s crops.  She was paranoid her babies would get bitten and would insist we stay nearby.  Some nights, when Daddy came home, she would show him the snake she had shot that day. Its tail touched the ground one side of the fence she had slung it over. It’s head touched the ground the other side. 

    Before my Mumma could cook, she had to stoke up the fire in the old, cast-iron, slow combustion stove, that was tucked away in the recess of her kitchen. Daddy would chop the wood, and often light the fire, but she had to keep it from going out.  The big, cast iron kettle would sit at the rear of the stove, filled and warm; ready to bring to the boil again when the workmen returned or a visitor turned up.  The warmth of the stove would raise the most amazing bread dough and sweet German Kuchen.  The same stove would keep rescued baby ‘roos warm in their hessian bags, little chicks alive at night and many kittens purred in it’s glow. 

    My Mumma’s babies were bathed in a little, plastic tub atop the melamine kitchen table, alongside of the warmth of that stove.  When we were older, she would often place all four of us in the enamel claw foot bath. The bath sat on top of grey, cold concrete in the roughly built bathroom set down four stairs below the kitchen. Sometimes the neighbour’s kids would end up in the bath with us, when they came to visit.  Especially when we all came up in welts from the itchy grubs that lived amongst the brigalow scrub we liked to play in. 

    Water was precious.  Our family of six relied on rain to be caught and stored in the attached corrugated iron tank.  The harsh, mineralised water pumped from the artesian bore was available but rarely used.  Maybe my Mumma used it in her shiny, new, Simpson wringer washing machine that stood proud and centre of the open laundry, alongside of our little bathroom. On a cold winter’s morning the water was often held hostage and frozen in the old lead pipes.  Warm water was only possible and available in the bathroom, if the fire was hot and water passed by the heater attached to the stove. 

    Mumma had to be strong. If Daddy wasn’t home by dark, she had to visit the garage, with its dirt floor and smell of diesel-and always the threat of snakes, to crank the generator.  The steel wheel with its attached handle, required a firm grip and strong arm to turn the crank handle and fire the diesel generator.  (Wealthier neighbours could afford a press button generator.)  She sometimes cranked the generator during the day, if she wanted to use her Sunbeam mix master to mix cakes and cookie doughs to bake for her babies and my Daddy.  At night, the generator would provide the electricity for our single, incandescent bulbs that glowed in each room.

    Mumma had to be careful. She was a Mumma before child restraints were mandatory in cars.  Her babies were transported in a wicker bassinette that would sit on the bench seat.  Her toddlers would usually stand on the same bench seat, no doubt distracting her while she drove and shifted the gears on the column. On Sundays, Daddy would drive our family wagon, giving her a rest.  One of us could sit on the front bench seat between Daddy and Mumma. Mostly, her bigger babies sat wearing their Sunday best on the bench seat behind them.  On special occasions and long distances, we would get to lie down in the back of the wagon. Daddy would carry the sleeping babies inside, when we got home to the dark homestead.

    There are many more things I remember about my Mumma and my childhood in that country home.  They are distant but good memories.  Mumma was mostly happy in those years.  In her latter years, she was mostly sad until she left us far too young at sixty-six. 

    Today, is Mother’s Day and I choose to remember her in those early years, when she poured out her life caring for her babies, including me.  In these years she stood shoulder to shoulder with my Daddy in outback Queensland, when they were share-farmers.  I choose to remember her as our loving Mumma; brave, strong and full of care.  I love you Mumma. Happy Mother’s Day. 

  • Finding refuge under the wings of a motherly Father God on Mother’s Day

    Finding refuge under the wings of a motherly Father God on Mother’s Day

    I am blessed to have two children who call me mum. One of those turned up with his wife and cooked me-well all of us, a gourmet breakfast for Mother’s Day.  The other was too far away to drop by but she messaged me instead.  My mother was in my thoughts today, but not with me, as she passed away nearly seven years ago.  

    Last year on Mother’s Day I reflected on my relationship with my mother, which was complicated and less than perfect.  I wrote a blog titled ‘On Loving a Less Than Perfect Mother” overcoming my nervousness about writing about less than perfect motherhood- which seemed to me to be one of those sacred cows.  I was humbled by the response and moved that so many people related to my story.

    Photo by rawpixel on Unsplash

    Sadly, there are many people who have a less than perfect relationship with their mother.  Some relationships are filled with the pain of abandonment, rejection, maybe neglect and or abuse.  For some people there is little or no relationship at all. Some of our mothers were too wounded to be there for us.  Mother’s Day is therefore often painful.  

    Some of you are those mothers who in spite of doing the very best you could, have unintentionally abandoned your child, rejected them, ignored them or even hurt them.  My heart goes out to you on Mother’s Day.   

    The fact is none of us are perfect, and neither are our mothers. We need not lose heart though as we have a motherly Father God who will never abandon us or forsake us.  His love is perfect and everlasting.  In Him we can find shelter and encouragement in His care. In Him we can find healing, forgiveness and nurturing love.  

    I love the imagery in the Bible of a God who is like a mother hen gathering the chicks under his wing. Those wings are a nurturing refuge; a place of warmth and security.  The Psalmist knew that too.  He spoke of the unfailing love of God and the refuge in the shadow of His wings (Psalm 36:7). He spoke of God’s faithfulness and covering with feathers (Psalm 91:4).  He spoke of God’s mercy and refuge in the shadow of the His wings until disaster passed (Psalm 57:1). And he spoke of his desire that God keep him the apple of his eye while hiding him in the shadow of His wings (Psalm 17:8). 

    If you struggle on Mother’s Day, please be encouraged that you are not alone.  There are others that understand your pain and there is another in whom you can take refuge.  This week may you find shelter under those ‘wings’, and may you know what it is like to be His. 

  • On loving a less than perfect mother on Mother’s Day

    On loving a less than perfect mother on Mother’s Day

    Today is Mother’s Day in Australia. The sentimental phrases about mothers started on Facebook about two weeks ago.  Instead of warm and fuzzy feelings I felt a deep sadness settle over me. Not just for my loss through my mother’s death six years ago, but for my loss during her life. I am ashamed that I have so few good memories of my Mum; hurt and disappointment seem to have got in the way. I want to honor mum; as I should. After all good girls honor their parents.  Why then am I struggling to do this?

    Many people loved my mum; including my siblings and I.  However, not everything was perfect behind closed doors.  Mental and emotional health was not something that was talked about when we were growing up nor was the impact on the children often considered. Even now I struggle to confess that my mother suffered from mental health issues.  I am still learning the impact this has had on my siblings and I.

    Growing up as the eldest of four children born within four years, I took on an idealistic and unrealistic mantle of the responsible one; the good girl.  I don’t know when I crossed the line and became responsible for my mother’s happiness and became the family’s peacekeeper?  I believe it had something to do with my mother’s struggle with anxiety and depression, my temperament and the dislike for conflict. What child does not want their mum to be happy and their parents to stop arguing?  As a teenager, I would often plead with her and retrieve a knife, a rifle or pills from her hands.  I would also clean the house first thing on a Saturday morning, before she could yell at us kids.  I did lots of things as an adult too to try to make my mum happy.  It feels like I could never quite get there. No matter what I did, it was never enough.

    At some stage I moved from wanting to make her happy to helping her to change and find happiness herself.  At the wise age of twenty-seven, I thought that if I could make changes then mum could too.  It was her GP that told me to let go of the mother I thought was inside and accept that this was my mother.  Sadly, I do not think I ever did this.  There was too much frustration in the way.  I struggled all my adult life wanting my mum to be somebody else and failed to accept her for who she was, flaws and all.  I think my sisters did this so much better than I. 

    I harboured frustrations, resentment and hurt for the loss of the mother that I would have liked to have had.  Sometimes it felt like she had an uncanny way of throwing back my fears and flaws when it seemed I was not good or responsible enough.  Shortly before her cancer diagnosis, Mum was unhappy with me because I had not spoken up in a family falling-out.  She punished me by not wishing me a happy birthday.  And she accused me of only doing my religious duty when several months later, I dropped off a gift and a card to her for Mother’s Day. I was trying so hard to please her and please my God by honouring her. It felt like I had failed.    

    I had put all my energy into pleasing her and others and pushed down or ignored my needs, my desires and my ideas.  It took me years to discover and accept who I am when I am not being the responsible one or the good girl.  This was and is not healthy for me or my relationships with others; including my mother. Forgiving my mum for not being perfect was essential to letting go.  Finding my voice has been an important part of my healing journey.

    Along the way, I have shed many tears in private and I have called out to Jesus to come and heal my very sore heart. I learnt to press into the pain, own my feelings and not stuff them down.   For someone that liked pleasing people; especially my mother, I had to get used to the feelings of being seen as the mean girl when I set boundaries; especially when I was used to the role of peacekeeper and one who usually rescues the situation.   That lesson did not come easily. Learning to express my needs requires honesty and can mean rejection; a feeling I have to downgrade. 

    Compassion and empathy for mum has come in waves.  It came at unscheduled moments. It came while watching Sandra Bullock’s character wrestle with her relationship with her mother in the movie “Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood”.  It comes when I recognise in myself similarities to mum as I age.  It came when reading a Brene Brown book and accepting ‘What if she was doing the very best she could?’

    When we found out mum was very sick, I dropped everything and loved my mum the only way I knew how; I did things for her.  I drove her six hundred kilometres to admit her into hospital. I often visited with her; sometimes giving Dad the opportunity to return home for a break and look after their home.  When she was released to come home to die, I drove to Brisbane to pick her up.  For the last few months, she was in palliative care at home, I bathed her and changed her sheets. I visited her most mornings and every afternoon to check in on her.  We never really talked about things she said.  Somehow, they were not important anymore.   

    I am learning to live with the sadness of a mother gone.  I am grateful for a loving God that is at work healing my sore heart and helping me to forgive and understand. My heart is encouraged knowing that mum loved each of her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, as best she could. She loved being a mum. And I loved her.   Happy Mother’s Day Mum.